I Can't Face the Dark Without You
by harrypotterlookalikex
Summary: Harry and Draco must help each other face the dark, together. Draco is broken, and Harry must be the one to stitch him back together. And after the war, Harry's mental scars remain, and will prove difficult to banish. Slash, SI, ED, OOC, language.
1. Chapter 1

**WARNING: This is rated M for a reason. Language, Slash-y themes (male-male relationship), SI, and various other things (which might spoil the story if I told you) will be included. If you are offended by that kind of thing, or are not of an appropriate age group, then please don't read this. You have been warned… **

Chapter 1:

The curtains opened with a sound like a machine gun rattling. The resultant sunlight seemed to poke Draco hard in the eyes, even through his tightly closed eyelids. He mumbled a few groggy profanities before turning away from the offending rays and cocooning himself still further into the sheets. Perhaps he could sleep a little longer…

But, no such luck. Harry's voice filled the room, seeming to deafen him in his early morning brain.

"Wake up Draco. Wakey waaakey…"

"If you EVER use such language again I will curse you into oblivion. That is my solemn promise. As soon as I'm awake, that is." the blonde griped. Harry merely chuckled; this happened every morning, just variations on the theme. He loved hearing the different insults thrown at him each day by his beloved dragon.

Draco groaned and sat up, feeling his head spin. Imagining ways to kill his partner for disturbing his beauty sleep, as was his custom every morning, he stood up slowly, hearing his joints crack as he stretched slowly, painfully, and VERY carefully, feeling the skin stretch over his bones.

Harry shoved him towards the shower, knowing that the hot water would revive his boyfriend somewhat. While Draco was busy reviving himself in the bathroom, Harry strode purposefully off to the kitchen to make them both breakfast, and, more importantly, some strong coffee.

As soon as he had shut the door behind him, Draco breathed out a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding. When he had stretched that morning some of his more 'private activities' had made themselves felt. Painfully. Activities he _definitely_ didn't want Harry finding out about, especially since he planned to live past the next week.

He waved his hawthorn wand and removed his glamours. He was eternally grateful for the book of beauty spells that someone had given him as a gag gift when he had come out the closet. Otherwise he would have had little clue on how to cover up his 'indiscretions'. Which would mean that he would be decidedly fucked, as Harry would have rumbled him in about 2 seconds flat.

Gritting his teeth, he yanked off a band-aid that had partially covered one of the worse cuts on his leg, and hissed at the fresh blood that came out.

Wincing, he limped to the shower, pulling off the rest of his clothes as he went. Turning the water onto hot, he stepped under the steaming jets, tears mingling with the shower as the pain from his protesting injuries seared through him. Whimpering, he turned the water as cold as he could bear, internally berating himself for trying to mix hot water and open wounds. Again.

He hurriedly washed himself, not wishing to prolong his torture longer than necessary. Hobbling out and casting a rapid drying charm, he cleaned the cuts that required thus, reapplied his glamours and wrapped a towel securely around himself. His ablutions completed, he tried to affect a pain-free gait, in case Harry was waiting for him. He removed himself from the bathroom, and ambled to his half of the wardrobe. He decided on casual robes over long trousers combined with a few Muggle layers over his torso, as he wasn't due into the office. After all, it was the weekend, but he had reason to get out of the house for some sorely-needed groceries, as well as Harry needing some more formal robes.

Never would he understand his spouse's issues with wearing clothes until they were more holes than fabric, but he never wanted to. They were not ready to hear ALL of the other's demons. Draco was decidedly against hearing about Harry's childhood just yet, and Harry was unlikely to be prepared to hear about Draco's current troubles.

Morning routine thus completed, glamours securely in place, Draco went down to the kitchen where Harry was putting the finishing touches to their breakfast. Draco helped himself to some fruit, taking pains over his selection to ensure that the fewest nutrients possible went into his mouth to be possibly absorbed and converted into the revolting fat that covered his entire body. Harry, intent on his coffee, took little heed of the other man's obsession, and concentrated on devouring his own repast of bacon, eggs, buttered rolls and various condiments, all washed down with a few cups of coffee.

Draco's stomach (all but silenced by a form of a glamour), ached and roiled in protest, but he refused to provide for it, instead forcing himself to be content with a few sips of strong black coffee. Not only did his favourite beverage serve to stir him further, but it also masked the smell of ketosis that followed him even after he had cleaned his teeth madly. This was one of the things he had learned early on that he was unable to hide, which was a really minor inconvenience in the greater scheme of things. However, it could be a signpost for anyone who bothered to look at the signs, so instead he contented himself with ignoring the strange, furry feeling in his mouth, and trying, as usual, to breathe through his nose.

In between sips, he pushed his meagre portion of fruit around his plate, trying to make it look like he had eaten something, anything. He used this ploy every morning, as Harry was too sleep-fogged (like him) to notice.

Luckily, Draco was able to get away with drinking just his coffee, as Harry was starting to get terribly excited about their forthcoming shopping trip. The pale man shook his head at his partner's antics. Yes, they were both gay. No, only Harry could possibly persuade Draco to go shopping. Despite stereotypes on his sexuality, Draco only cared about his clothes so there was no fuss made over him.

_Hair _on the other hand, was an entirely different matter. He could spend hours preening his locks in front of their bathroom mirror, which would compliment him whenever it saw fit. Harry loathed the mirror, simply because any compliments it gave Draco made him jealous. Stupid Gryffindor mentality.

Finally, the torture was over. Harry had banished the dishes to the sink, and Draco had cleaned them, and charmed them back into their cupboards. Cloaks donned, the two men set out, hand in hand, into the morning sunlight.

**AN: Please review! I don't like flames though, so please PM me if you wish to complain about something in a nasty way.**


	2. Chapter 2

I Can't Face the Dark Without You

Chapter 2

With a small pop, Draco and Harry appeared at the start of Diagon Alley, in the designated Apparition Point. As soon as both men regained their senses from the usual effects of such travel, Harry dragged his hapless partner to Quality Quidditch Supplies. Meekly, Draco followed in his wake, cursing his love for the bloody sport-mad Gryffindor.

Whilst in QQS, with Harry safely going into transports of delight over the latest broom (a Bolt), Draco internally pondered how many calories Quidditch burned, the different roles requiring different energy expenditure, and how to maximise weight loss for the next time he played. However, they had gone to Diagon Alley for clothes and groceries, not sodding broomsticks and bent-twig-clippers, Draco mused. Thus, he decided to begin the arduous task of extracting his Saviour from the wonderful world of QQS.

After what seemed like an eternity of being ignored, Draco resorted to repeatedly poking his dark counterpart in a last-ditch effort to get his attention. Over the course of the previous 10 minutes, Draco had spoken to Harry, waved at him, cast an awareness charm on him, and had even magicked the alluring display to become invisible. To no effect. He had been ignored, and his partner had merely switched focus from the invisible products to another.

Finally Harry was yanked out of his reverie by a particularly vicious jab to his backbone from Draco's bony finger.  
>"Yeow f-!"<br>Harry paused in his cursing, and took in his assailant.

"Oh, it's you. What was that for?"  
>"YOU were procrastinating the start of the necessary duties which we undertook this journey to fulfil. Were you not?"<br>Draco fixed Harry with a fierce glare, which was suitably received. He started to direct Harry out of temptation's way and towards the tailor.

Along their way, Harry started bemoaning his fate, beseeching Draco in many ways to prevent the upcoming torture session. Draco knew full well that if he listened to these pleas, his heart would melt and Harry would more than likely end up wandering about in little more than rags. A state of affairs that was not at all desirable for anyone.

Finally, they arrived at Draco's tailor, Isaac Randall. He was a diminutive, squat, balding man with a pointed goatee reminiscent of the one that used to grace the face of Igor Karkaroff. He wore small glasses that perched on the end of his nose, and seemed to be almost blind despite them. But when it came to cloth and tailoring, he had no equal, and his family had clothed most of the pure-blooded families for generations. Draco had been fitted by this man for as long as he could remember, and had introduced Harry to him when they had married.

Despite Randall's expert skills, Harry still loathed to be measured for new clothing. It was not a painful process, nor an unpleasant one. However, it could be a little tedious and cold, as one had to stand still and without clothing, save for undergarments. Fortunately there were charms and curtains that ensured a modicum of privacy from the public and other patrons, but Draco and Harry were used to each other's nudity, and Randall was, as always, completely professional, taking little heed of such trivial things. Fortunately, Harry's measurements had not changed since their last visit, and so his time on the stool was relatively brief. Then it was Draco's turn, while Harry swapped places with his husband and browsed through the vast selection of fabric swatches.

Draco was not looking forward to this. He knew that his glamours would hide the scars that were liberally dispersed about his frame. He just hoped that Harry would be too immersed in samples and patterns to take proper notice. With an internal sigh, he began to shed his clothes, which were whisked away and kept by one of the many attendant elves bound to the shop.

Unbeknownst to Draco, throughout his fitting Harry had sneaked a few glances at his lover, as much as subtlety had permitted. He saw, with growing anxiety, the way that the bones stuck through Draco's pale, grey-tinted skin, despite the sheen of glamours than shimmered all over him. Harry, on reflection, had never yet seen his partner _without_ the glamours, but he still wondered what he had to hide. Was it for vanity, or something deeper? Harry didn't know, but filed away the thought to continue at a later date. They had only been bonded for a few months, and while their relationship was very open, they simply hadn't had the time to find out every facet of each other's character. However, there were more pressing matters at hand. Like feeding his Dragon up again. Harry couldn't _believe _how gaunt his mate looked, and cursed apparent his lack of care towards him. The war had been hard on both of them, and obviously Draco was not recovering as well as he had originally thought. Internally, Harry started to plan nutritious, high-energy meals for the rest of the week. It was time to take drastic action.


	3. Chapter 3

I Can't Face The Dark Without You

Chapter 3

After Draco had resumed his clothes, Randall assured them that their clothes would be ready and delivered within the week. Their accounts at Gringotts would be debited with the correct amount, so there was no need to cart about mounds of Galleons.  
>Harry and Draco thanked the tailor, and turned to walk to the grocer. On their way, Harry engaged Draco in a conversation about food and dieting. He expressed his opinions in such a way that Draco would know that Harry had rumbled him. He loudly proclaimed his views about anorexics being vain and attention seeking, and that people should eat more so they stayed in a normal weight range.<p>

Draco listened to Harry babble on with typical Gryffindor naivety. He knew Harry had seen him, skinny. And he would pander to this game. Then Harry would not suspect a thing, and Draco could go later back to the old ways, like nothing ever changed. He internally wondered at his partner's ignorance, but he was relieved as well. Nothing _would_ change. The comfort of routine, calming and reassuringly familiar. He just had to act convincingly enough to fool Harry. Mentally, he just hoped he would have the necessary acting skills.

Meanwhile, Harry was trying to remember what kinds of foods were high in fat, or generally high-energy. He remembered Wood ordering lasagne for the team the night before a big match, so he conjured a recipe book and copied the list of ingredients onto their food list. He also added things like creamy milk, cheese, and chocolate and baked goods, in an endeavour to tempt Draco's possibly meagre appetite, whether he wished for sweet or savoury foods. His dragon would not fall foul of any kind of vanity, and he would NOT succumb to the looks of a wilted weed. Harry was determined to feed his husband up, and so that would be exactly what he would do.

Draco surveyed the shop with the air of a person viewing a morgue. The heaping piles of vividly coloured, flavoursome foods held about as much appeal as the dirt in the corners. He had long trained his body to ignore hunger and nourishment, and so this market would not present a challenge to his control. It _would _however tax his acting skills, and so he strolled around and about, trying to look purposeful, occasionally throwing a food into the cart that looked somewhat familiar.

After about half an hour, Harry resorted to levitating the basket in front of him, as it had become so full and heavy that his arms could scarcely lift it anymore, let alone carry it about the shop. It was hen that he turned to Draco.

"Have you put in things you want?"

"Indeed", he replied, feeling almost smug from his strong, yet technically invisible, efforts.

"Then let's register these, and get back home. Dinner is my treat" Harry winked at Draco, then produced his signature, knee-weakening grin that had Draco's heart racing along faster than any fancy-assed broomstick.

Suiting word to deed, he wafted the laden carrier to one of the register-elves, who produced a till slip from the bottom of the basket and wished Masters Potter-Malfoy a squeaky 'good day'.

Finally, Harry put all the newly purchased fare into a bag similar to Hermione's old beaded bag, but with cooling and preserving charms. He then forwarded it to the Manor, and grasped Draco's arm. Then as one, they once more turned to home through the overpowering blackness.

**AN: Please R+R, I need inspiration on where to go for this (I have ideas, but I want input from any readers?), and I would also quite like to know if anyone is bothering to read this, otherwise I will stop it and save the PT. X**


	4. Chapter 4

I Can't Face The Dark Without You

Chapter 4

**AN: Thank you for the reviews (OK, I didn't get **_**that**_** many, but I still love ANY that I get!) In answer to a seemingly universal desire for a confrontation-type scene, it will happen! Just not yet. I will show just how messed up Draco is first. You have been warned...******

**WARNING: As per description and rating, may be triggering to SI or ED, so please make yourself safe or give this chapter a skip if you feel you must. X**

The two men arrived at the Manor, staggered a little, and caught their breath after the usual sensation of Apparition. Then Harry turned to Draco and said "I will remind you that dinner is my treat. If you want wine, ask one of the elves. I will probably be in the kitchen if you need me. Otherwise you look like you need to go get some sleep, although I hasten to reassure you that your hair IS perfect."  
>Draco almost giggled at the strange combination of command and compliment. He pecked Harry on the lips once, and walked inside, straight up to their bedroom. There he produced a hidden bag that only he could ever find, and went to the bathroom, locking and warding the door behind him to ensure privacy and that no noise or any indication of the happenings within would be broadcast about.<p>

He sat down onto the edge of the bath, with his feet inside, and his cloak hanging over the edge. Realising this, he removed all of his clothes save for his underwear. Resuming his position, he reached for the bag and put his wand down, but still within reach. Unzipping it, he gingerly reached into it and pulled out one of the most numerous of objects within. A razor blade, honed to perfection.

Draco took a short moment to centre himself, to figure out where he would inflict the damage this time. He always felt a faint, somewhat tingling sensation in a probable area, and so that feeling provided him with a propensity for whichever spot it occurred on to be the first place to mark.  
>Finally, he settled on an area about 23 up his thigh, on the front. It was scarred, but healed, and so was approved. He grasped the blade firmly, and _swiped_, hard.

He gasped in surprise, as per usual. But he barely paused, repeating the action again, and again, hearing the flesh rip and feeling the blood trickle over his hand and leg. He repeated the action methodically for some time, until an area about the size of a Muggle postcard was criss-crossed with a group of bleeding stripes that dripped down in a disturbingly hypnotic fashion. Finally, Draco jerked out of the reverie that always seemed to accompany this act, and cleaned the blade, returning it to his bag. Then he really _looked_ at his new decorations, and sighed. Casting a quick Tempus Charm, he realised that such damage was inflicted in only 20 minutes. At least today was not as bad as others had been. Now he had plenty of time to clean up, glamour, and dress for dinner.

Urgh, dinner. Harry mentioned fucking LASAGNE, dear Merlin! High in calories, carbs, and fat, just thinking about the stuff made Draco want to retch into the nearby toilet, or go running 100 laps around the Manor's extensive gardens. Wine was perhaps a better idea than he previously thought. High in calories it may be, but it had alcohol, and fluids were more satisfying than solid foods, so he could fill up on water and a little wine and have less room in his stomach for that heart-attack of a meal. He groaned in horror of the evening's menu, then distracted himself thoroughly by agonisingly cleaning his leg. Gritting his teeth, he wiped the cuts with cotton wool, made sure they were no longer bleeding, then replaced his clothes, as he was starting to shiver. He exited the bathroom, hid the bag away again, and settled down on the bed, calling a house-elf for some cold water to fill him up before the debacle ahead of him very soon.

**AN: I love feedback, even negative feedback - I can fix problems! So...****  
><strong>**PLEASE REVIEW! X**


	5. Chapter 5

I Can't Face The Dark Without You

Chapter 5

**AN: So here we have the precursor to the dreaded dinner scene… (Cue Beethoven's 5th). The eating-type scenes will be next chapter. Draco struggles with himself, calories, and decoding Harry, and Harry struggles with cooking, calories and decoding Draco. Ho hum.******

**I will warn you again, if you are affected by SI (referenced), or ED, this may be triggering, so please make yourself safe before you read this, or don't read if you feel you shouldn't.**

Draco sipped at his icy water meditatively. The ice would burn more calories, and soon he would switch to warm water to make him feel fuller. He knew Harry cared about him, superficially. But _only _ostensibly, of course. Other than that, there was no reason for him TO care. Why would Harry bother to truly love such a totally fucked up waste of space like him? Was it to lull him into a false sense of security before hurting him, like his parents had done countless times throughout his upbringing? Or was it simply to satisfy a sadistic corner in his nature, one he otherwise kept well hidden? Draco didn't know, and he was in no mood to contemplate such a particularly depressing topic. His cuts had barely stopped bleeding properly, and there was no time to alleviate his misery that way. Other methods had proved somewhat ineffective, and Draco didn't want to expand the effort of keeping up a happy façade over pre-existing gloom when he went into the torment that would masquerade as a cosy 'night in' kind of dinner. He wasn't sure if he would be able to move if he ate anything, let alone fuck, as was the usual plan for the evening. But that would have to be a thought process for later. He needed to pee, and to switch his water around.

Meanwhile, down in the kitchen, Harry was cursing fluently (non-magic) under his breath, whilst peering through the oven door at what he thought might just be a bloody great balls-up of a lasagne mix, but wasn't for sure. It looked like the pictures in the book, but that never meant anything much in cooking. However, he _had_ followed all the instructions, and that had usually counted for something out in Potions (well, when had learned to actually _follow_ them, and not make a cluster fuck of the whole cauldron like he had done for most of the first 5 years of his Potion-making career). So, he took a deep breath, put on the oven mitts, and opened the oven door to pull out his creation. The first thing he noticed was that searing heat, that hit him like a pillow thrown during one of the pillow fights in his old dorm. Rearing back slightly, he inhaled in his shock. And inhaled again. It smelled like _heaven_ - everything good and delicious and right, all rolled into one glorious perfume. He was hard put not to just stand there and keep breathing in the heady scent in, but the dish was hot, not to mention rather heavy to hold up. So he put it down onto the granite and surveyed his masterpiece with pride, satisfaction, and a tiny hint of smugness. He didn't think he could cook, and now he had proved that he could cook food that at least smelled good enough to take up one of the scents in Amortentia. It was too soon out the oven to taste yet, but Harry was becoming more and more confident that it would taste even a modicum as mouth-watering as it smelled. If he could manage that, he was set up for life. All he had to do was persuade Draco to have some, and never again would he worry about faithfulness, weight loss, or anything. He was _good_. He grinned self-satisfactorily at himself and the dinner, and crossed to the cupboard to fetch china and crockery.

Draco, while Harry was setting the table, was drinking his 3rd cup of warm water, with an air of anticipation of what was to come. He was apprehensive - what if his control broke, and he ended up piggish and loathsome and obese? But there was no time to ponder too deeply - Harry was calling him for dinner. Sighing, he downed the rest of his water and started down the stairs.  
>Upon arriving in the dining room, he was assailed by an almost-forgotten aroma. He smelled garlic, meat, spices, cheese... It was, admittedly, mouth-watering, even to him. The source of the odour was a dish of perfectly-cooked lasagne, which was surrounded with vegetables and a bottle of red wine, the exact type of which was indecipherable at that distance. The rest of the table was set for 2, complete with a few candles, adding a warm glow to the atmosphere of the room. He sat down, and waited for Harry to arrive.<br>He didn't wait long. Harry came and sat down after a short moment, giving Draco a small kiss by way of greeting. He collapsed into the other chair and said "You like? I've been working like a bloody house elf all afternoon, so we'll be eating leftovers for a week! I just hope it tastes as good as it smells."  
>Draco nodded the affirmative, secretly quailing at the very idea of eating any of that, tempting as it looked.<br>"Well, dig in!" Harry advised exuberantly.

And the torture commenced.

**  
><strong>**AN Like? Don't like? Please leave a review! I want ideas on where people ****want**** me to take this. X**


	6. Chapter 6

I Can't Face the Dark Without You

Chapter 6

**AN: Thanks to Firevein and Moondaughter6 for reviewing! I do take all your comments on board, and thank you ****so much**** for expending the effort :) XX**

**As usual, ED is rife, possibly (almost definitely!) triggering. Be careful, or skip if you're unsure. X****  
><strong> 

Harry started by offering Draco some of the wine. He had combed many wine shops for an excellent red, and had eventually selected 2, both from South Africa as it happened. One was a Hamilton-Russell Pinot Noir, apparently bold and spicy on the palate, and the other was called 'The Chocolate Block', which was a blended red of varying components, reportedly almost impossible to get hold of but 'truly astounding in its taste and complexity'. Or something. Harry knew jack shit on wine (he preferred beer or Firewhiskey), and so he had been forced to trust the wine merchant in Draco's address book for instruction. But it hadn't cost the earth, and they seemed drinkable. Which was the whole point of the exercise, really.

Draco was sipping the wine carefully. He had chosen the Pinot Noir for the first bottle, in the hopes that maybe he would get drunk enough not to freak out over eating so much. That, or he would be too full to eat much, maybe. Unfortunately, a little voice screamed in his head and reminded him that alcohol had the same energy equivalent per gram as fat (9 kcal per gram). So take it easy, and get the buzz in a less fattening way! Otherwise he would end up with a belly like a hobo alkie in Muggle London, bumming around doing fuck all except getting fat and wasted.

Urgh, his thoughts were going around in too many squiggles. He needed to focus on fooling Harry, then he could figure out a way to compensate for the madness that was getting underway. He took a small bite, and chewed exactly 56 times. And took a small sip of water to ease the painful swallowing. Urgh, it was awful. He tasted everything, but it was like chewing stewed knitting, and about as appetising as used cotton swabs. Nevertheless, he forced the unwelcome morsels down his throat again, and again, each time repeating the agonising process until he was all but whimpering.

This. Was. Fucking. Atrocious.

He had barely managed half a plate, yet his stomach was screaming at him in discomfort. His mind too, was reminding him of how fat, how worthless he was, although he tried to ignore it. So many calories, so much fat, a shedload of carbs, to say nothing of cholesterol and triglycerides and saturated fat and refined sugar….

It was all too much for Draco. He thanked his lover profusely for the meal, and all the effort he had put in cooking, and choosing the wine. It had been delicious, he lied easily, and he had adored every mouthful. He just was full – it was a very rich meal, as they both knew. Then, Draco excused himself to the bathroom, ostensibly to pee and to wash his face and hands. Also, he needed to centre himself, and to find an antacid to attempt to quell his ever-increasing nausea.

He used the toilet, then washed his face and hands. It was at that moment his stomach chose to give a particularly sharp stab of pain, accompanied by an increased feel of intense nausea. Draco gasped and wheeled for the toilet again. Just in time too, as all of his dinner, and the wine, and a lot of that afternoon's water made a revoltingly unwelcome reappearance. When his stomach seemed calmer, Draco staggered up and washed himself clean again, and brushed his teeth of the taste of vomit. Certainly, he had never tried to make himself sick, bulimia had never appealed to him, preferring to restrict his intake and increase control. But it certainly got rid of the exercise problem, and it was a back door if things got really bad, like tonight.

Oh, who was he kidding? He now felt madly guilty about wasting all of Harry's immense exertions throughout the day. Rationally, his cool Malfoy mind told him to shut the fuck up and stop behaving like a sentimental blubbering baby, and to grow a pair, eat sensibly, and stop being so bloody emotionally unhinged! He was behaving like a girl, and he needed to stop being so pathetic and grow the fuck up.

Woah. It was like a cross between his father, Harry, and the Dark Lord in his conscience. A seriously creepy combimation, but doubtless effective.

Draco had spent far too much time in contemplation in the opulent marble room to have any excuse aside from the true, 'revelation' part of the truth (never mind all the throwing up drama – he didn't want to hurt Harry's feelings).

So he shook his head in irritation, and went back downstairs to eat some pudding before the voice came back to piss him off further.

One thing was for sure. He liked his conscience, and it had probably saved his life. He missed food, and life, and now he was going to get it all back. Slytherin style. Grinning to himself, he bounced back downstairs to rejoin his companion and to eat that rather delectable-looking tiramisu. Suddenly, he was _starving_.

**AN: So we have a turnaround here! It's not quite a 'reveal type scene', which I will probably do for the SI a bit later on. But Draco has overcome a big mental block, and has started to break the anorexia on his own. Which takes courage, and tenacity, and major strength of mind to do, so he needs credit for that at least!**

**This has been lovely and long, so PLEASE REVIEW! X**


	7. Chapter 7

I Can't Face The Dark Without You

Chapter 7

**AN: Sorry for the wait. Work + being ill = slow updates. Duh, I'm bad. Thank you for all the alerts, faves, and reviews! Special thanks to blubber, MoonDaughter6 and Firevein for your reviews! I really appreciate any and all feedback – it brightens my day **

Draco bounded downstairs, looking forward to eating for the first time in a very long time. His stomach, now totally empty, wished for _food_, anything to fill the gnawing hunger inside of him. He pasted a false grin onto his face as he entered the dining room, and sat back down, leery of the harsh wood on his sparse posterior. He sniffed the air quietly, noting with delight the delectable scent on the air. Tiramisu was an Italian delicacy among wizard and muggle society alike, seemingly irresistible despite the usual magic-muggle divide when it came to food.

Harry looked at Draco, pondering the reason behind the sudden change in his lover's demeanour. Before he had left for the washroom, Draco had looked to be in serious distress, not to mention the fact that his gait looked pained. Now he seemed rejuvenated, full of life. Must have been one hell of a bathroom visit, Harry thought wryly to himself as he served them both a slice of the appetising dessert. He passed Draco his plate before banishing the excess dishes back to the kitchen. This kind of menial labour was usually reserved for the elves (a fact that irked Hermione), but Harry wished to be romantic, and romantic in his book did not include a wealth of miniature slaves traipsing in and out of the room constantly, no matter the excellent service they may provide along with the disruption. So, tonight, just for the night, Harry was Draco's elf.

Draco took a tentative bite of his pudding, hoping against hope that it would taste better for his change of heart. Mercifully, he was right. The lasagne had tasted depressingly like stewed knitting thanks to his mind and the ketones, but this tasted simply superb, the intricate flavours exploding on his tongue, surprising in their subtle complexity. Draco decided he liked Tiramisu, and without further ado he cleaned his plate. Entirely. In fact, it was only his very deeply ingrained sense of propriety that prevented him from _licking_ the damn thing. He leaned back in his chair with a wonderful sense of completion, of satisfaction. That dessert had been the best thing he had ever eaten, and for the first time in a _very_ long time, he had spared no thought to the calories, to the fat content. He was stronger than his mind, and for that he was thrilled. He was full, he was happy, he wasn't hungry, and he had a (hopefully willing) Potter to seduce. Life was good. Very, very good.

Harry looked at his dragon, and smiled. He hadn't seen Draco look so happy in a while, and the little smile that adorned his features thrilled him, and was surely mirrored upon his own visage. He hoped Draco would join him that night, and give Harry another chance to show his adoration and devotion to his beloved Slytherin. Something had changed in Draco, and it was something for the better. That alone made it a night to truly remember.

**AN: Good? Bad? Corny and revolting beyond description? Review and let me know please! Constructive criticism is especially valued, as are any encouragements. X**


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